


The Hippocratic Oath

by Orionali



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: A lot of canon NPCs get at least a mention, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Edgar's PoV for the entirety of the tale, Friendship, Gen, Gore, Lots of headcanons concerning the Ban of the Dragon, Minor Original Character(s), Occult, POV First Person, Platonic Swanreid, Post-Canon, Post-Game, Swearing, This Jonathan is perpetually stuck between 3rd and 4th endings, Turned!McCullum, Turned!Swansea, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, but only for chapter one, evil!Jonathan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-06-17 08:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15457218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orionali/pseuds/Orionali
Summary: He was simply too irredeemable to live. Part-doctor, part-vampire, Edgar Swansea comes to terms with his condition.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> VAMPYR is a good game. A very good game, indeed. And that one bright-eyed fool with a vampire fetish quickly became my favorite NPC. One thing led to another, and this drabble was born.
> 
> I headcanon-ed that Edgar, despite his... pastimes, would make an *awful* vampire; he's not cold-hearted enough to kill. Sure, he murdered thousands of men, women, and children by proxy when he mishandled Lady Ashbury's blood, but, on paper, his hands are clean. Now, killing someone yourself and living with it is another thing entirely... Good thing, Jonathan won't judge. He's up to his elbows in blood, too. Literally.
> 
> PS: Ivan isn't my character; she belongs to my good friend over Vampyr Discord.

_The Diary of Edgar Griffith Swansea (rebound and continued for convenience)_

 

9th November, 1918.

Dragging. That was the first thing I remember when I came to.

Now, if one would read these words, they'd presume I'm talking about a metaphorical pulling – my heart finding purchase with God for my sins. But, no. Someone was dragging me by the foot and it was quite unpleasant. A rookie of the Guard, as I later unraveled, sent by that sadistic madman McCullum to collect the bodies in Miss Fletcher's theater – mine included. How oddly thoughtful and prosaic of him.

Jonathan commented on how he had made that savage an immortal, too. Please, let it not come back to haunt us.

I have a hazy recollection of what happened next, but— I killed the undertaker. That innocent man who had no part of my abduction and torture... I killed him. I tasted the warm tang on my tongue. I drank. To heal, to _live_.

Nevertheless, I have to move on. The epidemic is not over and Pembroke needs its administrator. God! To think that this horror beyond imagining begun because of me, because of my impertinence... I have to make things right! I will not squander this second chance. Human lives hang in the balance.

I rummaged through the theater, but couldn't find Jonathan or any hint as to where he might have gone to. I hope he's all right and knows what he's doing.

He has to return so I could thank him in person.

10th November, 1918. 1:14 a.m.

Never thought I would be sneaking into my own hospital: Gwyneth and Corcoran raised the alarm when they realized McCullum and his goons were just dressed up as police. Now, as I write this, Pembroke is being beset by reporters.

Thankfully, out of my whole staff, only Brother Ivan saw me as I took the shortcut through the gardens. I lied about my disheveled appearance, but – and I'm sure of that! – he is far too clever not to tell the truth of my words.

Ivan saw me for what I am straightaway: an Ekon. I assured him I will not keep secrets that can harm him or any of my staff or patients. He appeared less than pleased.

3:09 a.m.

I have managed to take the situation under control – for now. Evicting the reporters proved to be a daunting task. The editor in chief of the _New Londoner_ , Eryn Winterson, vowed she would unveil what's really happening at Pembroke. I don't have time for this! Our first priority has to be the containment of the outbreak. And since McCullum and his Priwen showed their true colors, at last, it falls to me scrub the fallout. I am finding the responsibility overwhelming, but I shan't quake before anyone.

I told the staff that things have been settled between me and the group that came to 'arrest' me. They seemed content. But, I swear, if McCullum intends to finish the job then I'll— I won't let him blackguard the Brotherhood any longer.

I will take care of everyone admitted forthwith. Things will get better.

5:58 a.m.

Milton reported seeing Jonathan – or someone who looked like him – entering the main morgue building. He says that even it is overrun by “armed militia.” Curse those fanatics! Should I inform the police? Have them oust these pretenders? Or do I dare to confront them?

No, my patients and staff need me more. But... if it were indeed Jonathan... What is he seeking in the morgue? Why did he not come back to the hospital? I worry about him.

6:33 a.m.

The sun is rising – I can feel it in my bones. I'll rest for a while.

Funny. I always liked fine summer days the most. But now these chilly, late-autumn nights are my newfound ally in the struggle against the epidemic.

5:14 p.m.

I slept through the entire day. My body aches still from the Guard's hospitality, but I shan't complain. Pembroke has been quiet – surprising but not unwelcome. Priwen have vacated these premises and the Skals have retreated into the shadows. Perhaps now I can dedicate myself to those who need me.

I'm immortal now. I wonder what I can do... while avoiding direct sunlight, of course.

9:38 p.m.

Incredible! I have studied vampires for as long as I can remember, but to _be_ one... Indefatigably, precision, exemption from all diseases! I can help more than ever. All the lives I can save! With time, perchance, I can also perfect my panacea for all ills, but this time using my own blood.

Oh, wherever you may be, Jonathan, I thank you!

11th November, 1918. 2:31 a.m.

Usher Talltree himself paid me a visit tonight. I don't know if I should feel honored or unnerved; the Primate has _never_ left his hideout beneath Temple Church before. Well, at least not in my memory.

We had a long, stirring conversation – and despite my trepidation, the Primate wasn't angry with me. With a calm front, he declared that the cards told him, and I cite, “the fallen tower would embark on the wrong path to greatness and will be given focus.” I asked him whenever my condition would sow chaos among our Council. Usher seemed wistful and hesitant but in the end, he promised to reason with the Legates. A relief. Yet the Primate did make a demand... A demand that I behave.

I'm afraid his cards might have told him about that Priwen undertaker. I swear I didn't mean to kill him! I just had to... feed.

Something unusual happened soon after Usher left. I was leafing through my own notes on Ekons when suddenly my will was yanked away from me. I saw... sensed emotion that wasn't my own: anxiety, fear, fondness. Just as quickly, the vision was lost to me. I recall Lady Ashbury mentioning this nigh-telepathic bond between Progeny and Maker. She also said that only exceptional Ekons can harness this power... and Jonathan is certainly a force to be reckoned with.

So, am I listening to his emotion? Is Jonathan mindful of our link?

All of this together is disturbing.

But at least he's alive and well. I need to ensure that the Lady is the same. I have to, regardless of what happened. I can only hope Elizabeth will forgive me. However, I won't blame her if she cuts out my eyes.

4:49 a.m.

I went to Lady Ashbury's mansion in the West End. She wasn't home and Miss Charlotte answered the door. She was distraught and told me that her mother disappeared without a trace the other day. No note, no clue, nothing. This isn't like the good Lady... I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I cannot afford to go out looking for you.

Miss Charlotte recognized the blood in my veins. Something tells me she won't just let go of that.

I know McCullum is out there, sweeping through the pillaged districts. Is he keeping his condition a secret? How? Priwen recruits in mass numbers and teach them to break the illusion all Ekons conjure. How... why has no one turned on him? I wonder. Perhaps I should ask the Primate?

11:49 p.m.

Usher Talltree theorized that Geoffrey may be a... a Nimrod, the fabled and enigmatic descendant of Ekon, a vampire hunter without peer. The same subspecies our late founder belonged to. They haunt the night, feed upon other vampires, and cannot be identified even by those who rub shoulders with immortals daily – unless you're the Primate.

If he is indeed a Nimrod, then God have mercy. He will come after me for sure.

But not all hope is lost. Until that day comes, I shall continue as Pembroke's administrator. Our combined efforts may turn the tide in our favor yet!

12th November, 1918.

Another surge of emotion, but this time... sorrow. Sorrow and remorse. Jonathan's distress grew so intense it woke me. Something happened to him... yet he stands, still alive. I wish I could help, but this connection we share cannot tell me where he is. The only thing that I know for sure is that my friend has left London – his quarters here aren't maintained. His judgment is sound: McCullum is not known for forgiveness and, one of these days, he will take revenge for Jonathan's slight.

Ah, but Thoreau and Waverley request my presence. No time like the present to put an end to their squabble concerning Harvey Fiddick case. Pembroke is cripplingly overcapacity and we have to start discharging some of these patients.

14th November, 1918.

A wind is blowing over London. Usher Talltree says he has been approached by a most interesting Skal – Miss Eleanor Wellington. She's the “Old Bridget” Dr. Reid had mentioned and the wise woman of a clandestine Skal community. The community that... that was wiped out by Harriet Jones when she became a Disaster. By God... My – deplorable, foolish! – actions have caused this! This loss of life _and_ unlife. This is unbefitting both a physician and a scholar!

My condition lets me work back-to-back shifts. I shall do everything in my power to aid those in need. I will rectify my failings.

15th November, 1918.

My hand trembles as I write. I—I have not fed. For the second time since my rebirth, I hunger.

An onslaught of Jonathan's thoughts, but... but I found bloodlust in them. And then that bloodlust being satiated. At that moment, my friend Embraced a mortal. I just know it. Worse, that fire ignited my own and I thought of that Priwen rookie. How my fangs punctured the flesh, how his blood tasted, how I could not stop myself before he was drained dry.

Through willpower, I had managed to send the memory away and get back to what's important. Is it possible to block out this telepathic link? What happens if it comes back?

I am afraid.

16th November, 1918.

Today, I attended one of the London City Council’s Board of Health meetings to solicit help – Lady Ashbury's disappearance has already begun to take its toll on the hospital. I'm ready to fund the quota out of my own purse, but I am not starry-eyed. I know I won't be able to keep it up for long. But I won't hunt for some other sponsor yet. Naturally, I could ask Miss Charlotte, but I doubt I'll be able to look her in the eye.

Wherever Elizabeth is, I hope she's all right and doing fine.

17th November, 1918.

The Primate's letter brought me up to speed on what really happened after I turned Harriet into that monstrosity. I cannot believe it! The mythic Blood of Hate. The Queen of Blood – the Morrigan, Mother of all Vampires – chose Harriet as her host body! Influenza had stirred her in her slumber and she was closer to awakening than ever before. But Jonathan triumphed, Usher says. He brewed the Tear of Angel's serum and confronted the Disaster, appeasing the Morrigan in the process. Her son and Jonathan's Maker, Myrddin Wyllt, the Horned Vampire, promised our Order he shall retire before long as well. “No sooner dead than born,” the Primate quoted him.

Yet, even he cannot say where Jonathan and Elizabeth are.

The worry makes my stomach reel.

19th November, 1918. 9:05 p.m.

It's back.

It returned as I was hosting a concilium. Corcoran, Waverley, Ivan, Thoreau... All of my enlisted experts, with the exception of Jonathan, were there. The world seemed to shift. When it settled, it was reduced to a dull, grey image with smears of red for where my fellow workers once were. I saw the blood that flowed through their veins — yet in some, it was washed with garish-yellow. Corcoran and Ivan garnered the richest shade of this unsettling color. Sickness, stimulants. My staff has hidden their untreated maladies and addictions from me. Ivan keeps a secret far more grave, but I shall not entrust my diary with it.

Pain accompanied this transition – a hunger not fed. I felt sore all over. Corcoran sat closest to me. I wanted to... bite into his disease-ridden neck. Into my head surgeon's neck. In front of witnesses. My distress was apparent and, of course, my colleagues wouldn't leave me to my own devices. I had to end the gathering prematurely.

This cannot go on for long! If I don't do something about it, history will repeat itself! Think, Swansea, think...

10:30 p.m.

I'm onto something! I transfused Her Ladyship with human blood in the loft of this hospital. I remember how this routine curbed her hunger. Could I administer our blood bank supplies to myself? No one will bat an eye if they see the head of this establishment pocket a bottle or two of the donated blood, won't they?

The trick is to remove an amount of undead blood and substitute it with human.

11:33 p.m.

It worked! I feel more content and full by the minute... and now I have two splendid samples of my blood. I can continue my studies into its regenerative and curative properties.

20th November, 1918.

That's strange. My blood appears to be thin, too thin for an Ekon. Wounds close and heal as I watch, yes, but even the slightest of scratches requires hours. Am I of lesser lineage then? It doesn't make sense; Jonathan is Myrddin's champion. He kept his blood pure and strong by... by devouring life. Life that changed him.

Vampires drink blood by nature. Only living creatures contain the nourishment we require.

No, there has to be another way! I will not pose a threat to any of these people.

23rd November, 1918.

One 400 milliliter transfusion per day seems to be enough – it's repressing the symptoms of this hunger and allows me to perform my duties with no fear. Now I understand how Lady Ashbury must've felt.

Speaking of, nothing has been discovered about the whereabouts of her and Jonathan. Yet his lingering consciousness visits me from time to time. I do not blame him for keeping away, but I _must_ know the truth. Something happened to Elizabeth, I'm sure of that!

25th November, 1918. 5:49 p.m.

Rumors from the city seeped through the cracks. It seems that Priwen is at long last stopping their recruitment campaign, but they're not removing their presence from the Docks and Whitechapel completely. The frenzied Skal number dwindles without a Disaster there to bolster the troops. Still no news of Geoffrey. But if years of bitter experience as a Chaplain have taught me anything, it's that the Guard is nothing without its leader. No, he remains at large, despite his condition.

I sent the first draft of my treatise on what it is to be an Ekon to the Primate. I do hope he finds it a thought-provoking read.

6:52 p.m.

Eureka! All Ekons can become aware of blood at will. It is not something that comes and goes as I believed so earlier. I spent the last hour wandering about Pembroke, inspecting the staff and patients.

Much of the blood is contaminated. Diseases that can stack up, weigh us down if not treated. I will make my rounds tonight and give the patients precisely the type of medicine they need. I will call upon our last hidden reserve of antiseptics. After I'm done, I will look into finding another sponsor – Pembroke won't survive without a benefactor.

10:16 p.m.

I—

Thomas Elwood is one of my long-term patients: a veteran whose body bears inoperable scars. He was resting safely with us when I neared, carrying a tray of drugs and ointments that would lessen Thomas's pain. But instead of offering my services, I... I found myself smelling him? His neck? The artery ran so close to the skin. I could _overhear_ the flow, feel pressures that I could not. It made me dizzy.

The blood cursed me with the fear it brought and terror overwhelmed poor Thomas as well. I left on good terms... or so I think. Yes! I left in good faith. I left him in the care of nurse Pippa. Thomas will be all right.

28th November, 1918. 12:01 p.m.

Something is wrong.

I... no-no! Not again! The hunger does not abate. Pain gnaws upon my insides as I write. The transfusion didn't work. My eyes blur with the ragged greys of blood awareness. I distinctly remember Elizabeth's own being appeased for more than just a few days.

What is this... this insatiable rage? This urge to kill? It can't be the will of the Red Goddess, for she sleeps.

Jonathan, were he here, would likely not appreciate such a risky approach, but I have no choice. A patient just waddled past me – he has iron-deficiency anemia, but he'll do. Please, let it work.

12:53 p.m.

The mortal didn't question my will even though I have never used Mesmerism before. Enthralled, the man relinquished his blood for a direct transfusion. A pint. I wouldn't take more than I require.

But the feeling I got from it was strange, to say the least. I have taken the same steps as before, but the patient's thoughts... I grasped them. Somehow. Through embrace, vampires are privy to mortal secrets. Does this mean storing blood for future use erases its informative properties? It is my duty to investigate. This matter will not wait forever.

1st December, 1918.

The patient whose blood I helped myself to died overnight – Rakesh turned his body over to me before taking it to the morgue. Another vessel must be found. Blood is a valuable commodity at Pembroke, but it's not _rare_.

3rd of December, 1918.

Jonathan's power continues to assail my senses with a double awareness. I am an animal cornered and there is nothing to calm my anger anymore. Today, I am a murderer on the loose. I've escaped justice so far, but I cannot deny: all actions have consequences which cannot be undone. Thomas Elwood lies dead and rotting. I ripped his throat from its moorings and drained his lifeblood.

But his thoughts! They burned within my mouth, taking the weariness out of my bones. I am... renewed.

I die and live again.

I can barely cry; I am powerless.

4th of December, 1918. 2:43 p.m.

Mrs. Howcroft collapsed into hysterics in the vestibule upon seeing Mr. Elwood's body being carted off by Milton. Despite her dementia, she could tell Thomas didn't die of flu and held me accountable. She shouted and wailed that I am a vampire and that I killed her Thomas. No one believed her, of course. I won't flaunt my deeds, but neither will I abide by her childish antics drawing a crowd. I've not come this far to be accused by her!

None but the Lord shall judge what path is right for me. For I am damned.

8:26 p.m.

Hatred of the living girds my heart. Only blood of these lesser creatures can control it.

I disposed of Thelma's body by dumping it into the canal. No one will care – the flu and the Guard of Priwen had put a number of them into the dark, slime-filled water already. I couldn't let her talk.

I couldn't.

6th of December, 1918.

People are asking questions: the disappearance of Mrs. Howcroft and Mr. Elwood have warranted an inquiry among the staff. I said: the epidemic had taken them. I doubt they believed it. Influenza doesn't leave a trail of bloodshed, does it?

Dire news travels fast and it has alerted the rest. The Goswicks, mother and son, approached me today. The mother requested me to destroy all records of her stay at Pembroke. Before my very eyes, she wrote a check for ₤200 – said I should consider this a “sizable donation to the coffers of my hospital”. Despite her curtness and unfriendliness, I was unable to turn down her offer.

Right there and then I knew that she had the coin. Coin I so urgently needed. As I put the bank draft away, I heard her offhandedly remark that I, as the administrator of the facility, should not let lurid daydreams fluster me.

Her brassiness threw me into a stupor. Does she dare to mock me? She doesn't know what has led me down this path! Many have criticized me in the past – it shouldn't concern me overly to add another to the list!

And so I Mesmerized both her and her boy. After I led them away from the hospital, I made her sign her checkbook and hand it over. It'll be a while before all is well, but at least this wealth will keep us safe and afloat. But what happens after it runs out? I cannot live like this for long.

I killed the Goswicks.

8th of December, 1918.

My crimes trouble _“Brother”_ Ivan; she wishes to interrogate and supervise me. I won't blame her for the resulting carnage. However, I will blame her for the police and journalists once again barging into my hospital like it's their own personal sandbox.

It all began with Dr. Thoreau Strickland, inspired by the operation I carried out on Mr. Fiddick weeks ago, asking to be promoted to head surgeon – in light of Jonathan's long absence. He thought he was not unworthy now that he'd been working on his theories and techniques. He wanted to come out on top and humiliate his rival, Waverley.

I told him this would not happen: Jonathan is a part of Pembroke and I'm his employer. In brighter times, I would've considered hiring more vanguard talents, but alas, we must deal with the epidemic in due course first. Fortunately, the number of deaths per thousand infected seems to be decreasing. Perhaps we stand on the brink of a breakthrough? Perhaps an elixir vitae is waiting to be discovered? Wonders!

Thoreau, on the other hand, was aggravated. He began grumbling nonsense – which I, frankly, ignored – until he mentioned how much I have changed. I was no longer the bubbly man of science that taught him that we, as physicians, always navigate new territories. That many feel brushed off by my sullen moods and overbearing demeanor. Indeed. What has happened to me?

The last few days have been unbearable. A song plays in my head – again and again, over and over. All I can think of is blood. Of the potential, I can take for my own...

So I attacked Strickland without provocation. I didn't even bother to lure him away from prying eyes. He thrashed in my Embrace, screaming and pleading, but, eventually, became still and silent. His knowledge was now mine.

Naturally, someone heard the rumblings of our struggle.

_She_ found me. Ivan of the Stole, the woman that has been masquerading as a man all these years. Realization lashed out at me... in sync with her fist. Pain welled to the surface, keeping the hunger from overtaking me again. I owe it to her. She tugged Strickland away from me, yet he couldn't be saved. She squeezed the body into the small storage area neighboring my office. She asked if I had gone mad and snatched me by the arm. Her manner was brusque.

As it happens, Gwyneth and Waverley were made aware of the commotion as well. I sensed them come closer. They questioned the blood on my hands, my neck, and my lips. I couldn't take it. I broke down on them, compelling Ivan to spin a tale in my defense: I had just lost a patient in the O.R. and they... believed it.

After they left, my associate hauled me upstairs, to the lavatories. She didn't save her rage. She accused me: how long has this been happening, how dare I consume those I vowed to take care of, why did I not tell her or the Brotherhood about my troubles with thirst. How I was reduced to a fool who just slaughtered my own, and how lucky I was that she found me when she did.

Mirrors lined the walls of the lavatory. The shade of the dream. Making a point, Ivan clutched at my head and wrung it sideways, so I wouldn't keep my eyes to myself.

I had changed, my vampiric appearance as dark as my feats. Feats greater than those of ordinary men or Ekon. But at that moment— I looked the fiend in the face. Not the administrator who epitomized kindness and honesty, but a blighted demon. I could _see_ the specks threatening to engulf the irises. Turn them red just like Jonathan's. A servant of evil, I’ve damned my soul to Hell; Satan will strike and send me to the afterlife.

Many years ago, the Primate urged all his Legates and Watchers to never forget the Dragons. The purveyors of sin who must all be cast into the pit. Bah! Let the Brotherhood take their self-justifying stance as they will; to meet one in person would be exhilarating. We could learn so much from them!

Calming down for the moment, Ivan told me that when Strickland's body is found, she'll call the police – _“_ _we_ _have to frame this as a routine murder.”_

And now I sit in my office – after showing that bothersome Miss Winterson and the head of the Whitechapel Police out – pondering over a check. A Barclays check. And Mrs. Goswick did not entrust her belongings with Barclays…

₤10,000.

This much money will ensure Pembroke’s every need is catered to, but… who is this anonymous benefactor? Can’t be Elizabeth; the good Lady wished for her contributions to be transparent. A sense of dread falls over me.

Something is yet to come.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_9_ _th_ _of December, 1918. Pembroke Hospital, Dr. Edgar Swansea's office_

“I’ve vouched for you and you let me down, Edgar,” the turbaned man sneered. “I've always known you were full of surprises, but this? I've no choice in the matter: you strayed from the fold. If our Brothers of Saint Paul find out what you’re becoming – you've _become_ – this will send waves through the ranks.”

Dr. Edgar Swansea hastily set his favorite teacup aside – admittedly, he couldn't keep its contents down, yet he savored the smell nonetheless – and fixed the Brotherhood Primate with a shocked stare. “Your Excellency... You would deny me the privilege of membership? How can this be? Didn't my research into vampire blood yield priceless knowledge?”

Usher Talltree's shoulders pushed back. “You pose danger. To the Pembroke patients, to the staff,” he said, voice retaining a hiss of exasperation. “You've killed someone already.”

Edgar frowned. “With all due respect, sir, I don't have to answer your questions.”

“That wasn't a question, Swansea,” Usher stated flatly. “You are an affront to everything we believe in. All vampires give into the hunger sooner or later. Remember your Maker.”

“I fail to see your point, my lord. If it were not for the efforts of Jonathan, we'd be dead. We ought to thank him... that is if we knew his whereabouts,” he said with a grim twist to his mouth. “But he's been gone for over a month now.”

Indeed, he reflected. A month passed by since the great trials and tribulations of London have been cast off. The city weathered the storm of the epidemic he'd – unwittingly – started. The Ascalon Club had retreated back to the shadows. Priwen patrols had doggedly hunted down all remaining Skal and mutinous Ekon. As much as he loathed them, those embittered inquisitors _had_ performed a miracle – with Edgar's vampiric half-brother (by the sacred Stole!) in command no less. But, then again, Geoffrey McCullum has always been a man of character and action. That, and he appeared to have adapted to immortality frighteningly well.

“Yes, Jonathan may have appeased the Red Queen, but the cost was too high: Whitechapel and the Docks are naught but a wasteland littered with corpses.” The Indian Primate drew closer, eyes flashing dangerously from behind his black-rimmed glasses. “Be thankful the Stole is comprised of sophisticated individuals. Though you are Reid's Progeny, we will not seek your death. But make no mistake, you've earned one.”

“Your words do not fall on deaf ears, my lord,” the newborn Ekon assured. “You're the current Primate. If my company agitates you this much, then by all means, expel me.” He averted his eyes and muttered, “I've all the time in the world to conduct my research, as a member of the Brotherhood or not.”

“Is this how it's going to be then? More vile experiments?” his superior snapped. “Beware. We will not look the other way this time.” He paused. “Do not make me put the Ban on you—”

“The Ban? I'm not your enemy, lord Talltree!” Dr. Swansea interrupted, leaping to his feet and tipping over the teacup. The sweet-scented Earl Grey drenched the medical protocols scattered across the table. “Understand, the more we know, the quicker we'll be able to help the people!”

“Do not insult my intelligence, Swansea! You think you can keep secrets from me? You think I don't know you seek to replace me? The cards told me everything! Power-hungry churl.” Usher pressed his lips together into a razor-thin line. “A selfish, reckless and infantile lout who was undeservedly granted immortality!”

“You speak out of jealousy, my Lord,” he mocked, riled up by Usher's baselessness. “All because your kind does not possess the vaunted power and immortality of an Ekon—”

“Hold your tongue!” The Primate put both his hands down on Edgar's desk with a smack. “You're guilty and you won't weasel out of it. You set the wheels in motion when you created a Disaster out of Harriet Jones! And you will pay for this in the long run.”

“The important thing, Usher, is that she's been eradicated,” a familiar voice suddenly intoned, followed by whispers of leather and creaks of the floorboards.

“Jonathan!” Edgar looked to the door and gasped. “By the Stole, you're alive!”

Dr. Jonathan Reid, England's most distinguished physician, took off his coat and slung it over his shoulder. Edgar instantly picked up on his dearest friend's haggard appearance: his clothes were tattered and torn, off-color veins laced his skin, blackened and sooted. What happened to him? Did he flee a fire? Start one? Worse? But above all that, Jonathan looked _starved._ The sidelong, passionless glance he was giving the sole demimortal in the office was unmistakable.

Dr. Swansea wasn't sure how or why, but those blood-red eyes with an inhumanly-slit pupil... soothed him. He found himself clinging to them, to this strange semblance of comforting normality.

The voice resumed its song. Raw emotion, twisted and rotted, swimming inside his head, not belonging to him. Scraps of Jonathan's thoughts, the Master-Progeny bond. He had forgotten what it felt like.

“Am I interrupting?” asked Jonathan, casting another fleeting look in Usher's direction. His tone remained smooth, but it held a hint of underlying steel. “Don't worry; I snuck in. Our co-workers—” he cleared his throat, “— what’s left of them, don't know I'm here.”

“I thought you wouldn't come back, my friend,” the administrator admitted, pressing a palm to his heart.

_[Amusement.]_

“Doubt, Edgar? From you? You wound me.” His sire gave him a slow, somewhat sheepish smile. “I'm sorry I left without a word the night after I rescued you. I had to find answers from Elizabeth. Answers that couldn’t wait.” Jonathan turned to Usher Talltree and scowled. “If you'll excuse us. I don't want you intruding on this private matter.”

“You still have much to answer for, Jonathan Reid, and I shall not cower under your dread gaze,” the Brotherhood Primate said, vitriol rolling off his tongue. “You may have numbed yourself to the pain and suffering – your beastly appearance is proof enough to me – but we, proud Londoners, have not. After we rebuild what we've lost, we will demand justice for the slain. From now on you are a Dragon in the eyes of the Brotherhood.” He returned to Dr. Swansea. “Edgar here will unscramble this sentence for you, I'm sure. And then it's his turn.”

The newborn Ekon hiccuped.

“Duly noted.” The doctor appeared entirely disinterested. “Now leave before you regret it.”

Usher's hands clenched, whitening the knuckles. He huffed, pivoted on his heels and marched out, slamming the door with such force plaster rained down from the ceiling. Scornful cries echoed in the street below.

“This is bad. Very bad, indeed.” Edgar flopped back into his chair and rubbed at his hands. “The Ban of the Dragon? The Primate can't be serious.”

_[Wonder. Satisfaction.]_

“Yes, I've heard of it.” Jonathan walked up to his desk at a leisurely gait – as if he didn't a care in the world. “Your peace-loving confreres practice... peculiar magics, don't they.”

“M-More or less,” Dr. Swansea stammered in reply. “You see, we are scholars, Jonathan, but our founder, Paulus Aurelianus, a Nimrod, had sworn an oath to protect the living by identifying, pursuing and eliminating the Dragons – evil vampires. Faith is what we hold on to and we can wield it against them. We turned a blind eye to you and your exploits because Myrddin Wyllt told us of the Disasters and of your part in all of this. Now, the threat is ended and... Well—” he trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“Would you label me as evil, Edgar?” came Jonathan's soft voice.

“What?” The administrator ceased his fidgeting and jerked his head back. Jonathan's brows were arched – no malice lingered behind those red eyes. “No, of course not! You did what you had to do. And you saved my life. I'm in no position to judge you.” He breathed out. “Not anymore, in any case,” he added with a small, tender smile.

“Thank you. I knew I could count on you.” A grin built up in the corners of his friend's mouth. “You’re my friend, Dr. Swansea. Despite your errors in judgment and a penchant for games of chance.”

“And what of you, Dr. Reid?” He delved into his pockets, pulled out a handkerchief and began to towel the spilled tea. “The epidemic's over. Myrddin and his Queen sleep and we, once more, are left to our own devices. But this episode with Usher Talltree... I don't suppose you will continue as one of Pembroke's physicians?”

“I don't care for your Primate and his threats, but, ah—” Jonathan shifted, a crease wrinkling his brow. “About Pembroke and its tomorrow... Edgar, I— I followed Elizabeth. Elizabeth... She's dead, Edgar.”

Dr. Swansea stopped mid-wipe. “D-Dead?”

_[Regret. Reluctance.]_

The older Ekon's shoulders sagged and he gazed at his feet. “She couldn't live with the realization her blood had spawned a Disaster. I couldn't snap her out of it. She had set the keep afire and... She leaped into the flames right before my eyes.”

“Oh, God.” He clutched his temples, nails tearing into the graying hair. Redness smeared the right lens of his glasses: tears. Edgar's breath hitched. Vampires cried blood? He reached out to quickly jot his findings down in his workbook. Thankfully, the tea had spared it.

“I loved her and I'll miss her. But she chose her fate. That conversation in the catacombs of the keep brought – intended? – closure. We must move on.” Jonathan went around Dr. Swansea's desk and laid a hand on his Progeny's shoulder. “Will the Hospital survive without her Ladyship's support?”

“I... I hope. There were tithes, donations, offerings… and a check for ₤10,000,” he replied without raising his head. “But when it runs out? Perhaps Miss Charlotte, Lady Ashbury's daughter. She'd inherit her fortune. Ah, but she won't help. Not vampires like us. Not after everything we've— _I've_ done to her mother.”

His friend stepped back and looked out of the office window. Despite the late hour, Pembroke Hospital was a sea of bustle with nurses and doctors on the move; down in the street, Dr. Ackroyd, Nurse Hawkins and Nurse Branagan discussed, among other things, the Brotherhood Primate's hasty escape. Edgar stirred. Several moments passed in silence as he wiped his glasses with the sleeve of his surgeon coat.

_[Longing. Concern. Wanderlust.]_

The younger vampire twitched. “You have something to say, Jonathan?”

“Hrm?” Jonathan tipped his head, hands clasped behind his back. “How did you know I've a proposition to make?”

“I _can_ hear your thoughts, my dear.” Edgar barked a laugh. “I’ve been hearing them since my death. A Maker-Progeny bond.”

“Curious. Very well, let's put that to the test. What am I thinking right now?”

“That you want to leave London now that nothing's tethering you? And that you worry about my safety?” the administrator hazarded a guess.

“You are correct. My family is destroyed, and I have lost everything. But, at least, London will recover in time.” Jonathan returned to surveying the city. “A man of peace or not, you're an Ekon, Dr. Swansea. You should be able to handle yourself. But in my honest opinion, yes, what with the Guard of Priwen—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I underestimated McCullum. I had hoped he'd be outcast, become the prey of his comrades, but alas, he is a Nimrod. A perfect vampire hunter. How strange fate weaves her tapestry.”

Edgar didn't cut in on his sire's chain of thought.

“And now Usher breathes down ours necks. I may have the power to evade his wrath, but the odds are against you... It's best we leave while we can.” Dr. Reid gave him a questioning gaze. “If you've the desire to travel with me, of course.”

He shook his head. “I appreciate your offer, but I can't leave Pembroke. My patients need me.”

Jonathan quirked an eyebrow. “In what sense? As a doctor or as a vampire?”

That gave him pause. Guilt, like a cinder block, crushed him beneath its weight. A novel feeling. “Both, Jonathan, both,” he conceded after a while, unwilling to pretend any longer. “It's been a month. I'm trying to behave, but it's difficult.” He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “I'm beginning to understand your dilemma: to heal or to kill? What takes priority?”

“How many?” Jonathan inquired, voice neutral.

“Five.” The tightness in Edgar's chest wouldn't go away. “Just like you, I tried picking and choosing those who wouldn't be missed. People no one would avenge. I bided my time. I double, triple-checked. But... I believe my own staff might be onto something. Especially Dr. Ackroyd. He's been asking about the cadavers. He wants to find the cause of these disappearances.”

“Not surprising. You are the administrator of this institution and you've made the front page on more than one occasion. Oh, don't look at me like that; I read the New Londoner. _Fear of death confounds me._ Brilliant showmanship.”

“I… am afraid, doctor,” he said. “The situation. This hunger is getting out of control. It’s so demanding.”

The other Ekon's smile didn't reach the eyes. “I understand what you feel all too well, Edgar. In all sincerity, I offer advice: the longer you keep this up, the more you will lose. There's no long-term solution to the hunger.”

Dr. Swansea knew Jonathan spoke with clarity gleaned from experience. Though thwarted, the Red Queen's rage would live forevermore through her children. “I... I poured seven years of my life into this hospital. To leave it behind...” he murmured, getting to his feet. “But you're right. Without Lady Ashbury, it's only a matter of time before we close our doors. Or my own Brotherhood parts my head from my shoulders. Or our fellow physicians betray us to Priwen.”

“We did all we could.” Jonathan nodded, turning and heading toward the door. “Now we take our leave and vanish like those before us during the Great Hunts.”

Edgar blew out the flame of an oil lamp on his desk. “Did you... did you at least bury what was left of her?” he asked, clutching at himself.

“It took a while, but yes.” His friend flicked the light switch. Blackness enshrouded the room, but Edgar didn't have to strain his eyes anymore to see. “I gathered what ashes I found and buried them some distance from the castle. It was the least I could do.”

“Where are we going to go, old chap?” With a heavy heart, Dr. Swansea watched Jonathan crack open the door and peer through it – neither of them looked forward to greeting the unwary Pembroke staff. Content, the two vampires made a break for Jonathan's office.

“I want to see the world.” Jonathan hummed. “I've served in France for years and Paris... I hear it's beautiful any time of year. Then... who knows? Perhaps Priwen and the Brotherhood will forget about us in a decade, what do you think?”

Edgar pursed his lips. “Unlikely. In their opinion, you're an Ekon of infamy and ill-repute who deserves to be cast into the sea.”

“Yes, well, even if that's the case, we'll have make do with what we were given; I do not plan on holing myself up like William Marshal. We are vampires. We have eternity to pursue knowledge, make discoveries and evolve. Experience will bring perspective.”

The administrator stared up, at a loss for words. “You… you met Marshal? _The_ William Marshal?”

His sire glanced back at him, red eyes aglow with warmth. “He was Elizabeth’s sire who relinquished the Tears of Angels to save her. Walk with me, my friend, we’ve much to discuss.”

Dr. Swansea beamed. As they say, knowledge, used wisely, was the most powerful of tools.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you go in, please consult the tags. This is the chapter where most of them justify their existence. Thanks.

_11th of December, 1918. Dover Strait, RMS Serapis_

* * *

**_NEW LONDONER_ **  

_ABOUT 'ACCIDENTAL' DEATHS_

_London, Wednesday, December 10, 1918_

_The inhabitants of London live in fear of physicians. Delayed interventions, barefaced favoritism, and strange experimental treatments. This scarcity of professionalism is crystallized in Pembroke Hospital, Whitechapel, where deontology was discharged a long time ago._

_The Pembroke administration hides behind a façade of dedication and rectitude, but those of us who know any of their patients, or worse, were among them, are aware of their deceit. In this temple devoted to dread, you will have to pay to get a bed. You will catch illnesses you never knew existed, and your corpse will be relieved of its possessions in the morgue. Here, patients die overnight of wounds they never bore upon their arrival. And they call them 'accidents' and 'disappearances.'_

_Nonetheless, not even these mendacious physicians are safe. Two days ago, a killer walked about plain as day, constrained within the hospital, snuffing the life of one of the staff members. And nobody bothered to look into the murder of Dr. Thoreau Strickland._

_I briefly interviewed Dr. Swansea, head of administration, who declaimed a pedantic 'timor mortis conturbat me' (Lat. 'fear of death confounds me'), before forcing us out of the establishment._

_Quotes in Latin will not be enough to keep us away from their morbidity: volunteers are welcome to join me tomorrow morning in front of the hospital to demand clear facts about the state of this medical institution. Come in numbers._

_E.W._

* * *

That... that disreputable, lying woman! As if the names of people that were dead and gone caused her no pain—

_[Comfort.]_

Edgar Swansea sneaked a peek at his Maker. “I cannot help but be curious, Jonathan,” he said. “Do you derive some measure of satisfaction from letting out these chugs of putrid smoke?”

“No,” Jonathan replied, a badly-burnt butt of a cigarette pinched between his teeth. “But the piquant palate dims the hunger we draw, somewhat.” He flicked the cigarette into the well of dark, midnight waters of the English Channel. “Anything interesting?”

“W-What?” Edgar chuckled – yet this time, it did not come to him most naturally. He could tell. It wavered. Cracked. A coarse, dishonest noise.

“What's the newspaper talking about?” Jonathan cocked the head. “Seeing as you're clutching it perchance too firmly, I thought I'd ask.”

“Oh.” He looked down, hunting for an escape. “It's nothing. Just Mrs. Winterson's account of my disappearance.” He paused. “I— Leaving Pembroke Hospital seemed like a sensible idea at the time. I've waited long for an Ekon like you to bestow immortality upon me, but that appears to be the only boon to our... our exile. God! Hounded out of our homelands by my own Order! It's a disgrace! The Stole is supposed to study _all_ kinds of vampires—” He trailed off. “But I'm ranting. I miss Pembroke.”

“I understand and I admit – I like Pembroke too. It is the best hospital and healthcare facility in the East End, really.” He offered a bemused smirk. “But we cannot go back. To go back would mean picking a fight with either your Brotherhood, McCullum, or both.”

“I take comfort in that I know she shall live on without my guidance shaping her future. Just before you returned, an anonymous yet generous soul gifted ten thousand pound sterling to our cause. Can you believe it?”

“Ten thousand pounds?” Dr. Reid squinted, his blood-red eyes alight with an inquisitive spark. “That's an outrageous sum of money – you can purchase a manor house with that! And you say it was an anonymous donation?”

Edgar nodded.

“And you didn't pocket any of that for yourself, too?”

He opened his mouth. _Well, I still have Mrs. Goswick's checkbook—_ “N-No, I wouldn't create my own crimes, as hypocritical as this sounds. That money belongs to the people. In truth, I thought the contribution was Lady Ashbury's, but it's, well, impossible.”

His friend's head tilted away. “Impossible indeed,” he uttered. Through their bond, Edgar sensed great sorrow behind his darkness. “Someone rich must have faith in Pembroke, with or without her administrator.”

“The Board of Health will find a replacement for her, I'm sure. After all, I'm just a man. The new head surgeon will keep her from falling, disregarding the scandal I have left in my wake.”

The gazes of a Maker and of a Progeny met – the back of the younger vampire's throat ached. “Speaking of which, Edgar. Why did you kill those people? Some patients and Dr. Strickland, if I'm not mistaken? I thought you were his tutor in blood transfusions.”

Dr. Swansea found himself having half a mind to wash his body overboard. A muscle jumped under his skin – _must I name the alarming list of your victims?!_ “I cannot say, Jonathan. Let's change the subject.”

“You can confide in me, you know.”

Edgar went still, then looked back at the other man, eyes widening.

Jonathan thumbed his ear. “I'm a monster. Ask what you wish and put your mind at ease.”

The salt-laden air grew heavy, making it hard to breathe. Edgar heaved a sigh. “I— I am simply too weak!” he blurted out, glaring down at his feet. His eyes prickled with tears that threatened to get the better of him. “There. Happy now?”

_[Incredulity. Self-complacency.]_

“Too weak?” Jonathan swallowed laughter. “Oh no, Edgar. I have to dispute that – we live by Mendel's Law. Why, this was the very reason Lord Redgrave had ordered me to Turn Aloysius Dawson.” He crossed his legs. “Right before I refused to go along with his scheme. Power is our birthright. I learned that much.”

His friend had changed the topic just as he asked him, Edgar observed. There was no way someone as astute as the illustrious Dr. Reid wouldn't recognize he wasn't referring to some abilities common to all Ekons – presumably. “You've known me for quite some time,” Edgar said. “I've no interest in power.”

“So you say. And what about Talltree's bold claim of you wishing to replace, to usurp him, hmm?”

The former administrator ran both hands through his hair. “You eavesdropped? Ho— Never mind.” His shoulders curled over his chest. “It's just an idea. A ridiculous one to boot; no one would challenge the Primate of the Stole. Or should.”

“And why is that?” Jonathan appeared to be genuinely curious. “Talltree's not untouchable, you know.” He leaned back and stared at the dapple of ragged, moonlit clouds over the misty English coastline. “I visited him from time to time, in his burrow beneath Temple Church. Hermit. Deals in information, mostly. Just like you, he saw through me. A Dragon. Yet he took no action against me – just spoke a warning. This has led me to believe that your Primate may not be as imposing as he paints himself to be.”

Was he joking? Edgar appraised his Maker's immaculate face and stony expression, tried to find telltale traces of deceit. He couldn't. Bewildered, he scratched his cheek and let some moments pass in silence.

The older vampire continued, “... And with you as the new Primate? It would eliminate any threat the Brotherhood poses. One less headache—”

_[Expectation. Glee.]_

“Enough,” Edgar cut him off with a shudder. “Please. I'm not in the mood.” He set the newspaper aside, stood up and shuffled up to the railings embellishing the stern of the vessel; the thump of propellers and the foamy hum of waves blanketed him with a sense of calm. He stared at his Maker from the corner of his eye. “I'm not a violent person.”

“There are urges one cannot control. They shall make you one... if they haven't already.” Jonathan's head tilted back and he darted a look elsewhere.

Edgar followed his gaze and stiffened, yet the icy December air couldn't bear the blame. Two of _Serapis’_ forlorn deckhands came from below the decks, their own tobacco rolls in hand; they presented the vampires with furtive, wary glances and went aft along the starboard side. The physician returned to his scrutiny of the English Channel.

“There go two-thirds of this ship's crew,” he heard Jonathan remark offhandedly. “These nighttime ferries operate with as few men as possible. To maximize the profits.”

_“_ _La Manche,”_ Edgar replied. “This route has been swept through and through. Routine.”

“Alas, the same cannot be said about us, poor creatures of the night. E—” There was a fleeting hiccup-like stutter. “B-By Elizabeth's description.” He wrung his head. “Anyhow, we should reach the shore in twenty minutes or so. And then, along the journey of the path that's left for us. Paris. People celebrate the splendor of its bounty. I do question what it can offer our kind.”

Edgar pondered the implications of his Maker's thought and sighed with exaggeration. His lips trembled from the influential blood used in his Turning.

“I likewise imagine the aforesaid journey will take a large amount of time.” Jonathan held his chin high. “These daylight hours will run us ragged, I am sure of it. And nourishment is needed to heal.”

He took a deep breath and held it in. A wind blew over him, bringing the palatable scent of salt, sweat, and tobacco. His nose twitched, catching it.

The older vampire picked up the unwanted newspaper. “The continent heaves with the echoes of war and influenza. There's a good chance we won't come across any healthy, noteworthy souls on our way.” He nodded back at the sailors. “And they're healthy.”

“You're provoking an... an empty rage, Jonathan.” The vinyl that coated the railing crackled as Dr. Swansea tightened his grip. Canines lengthened, gnashing in his mouth; he leaned back and expelled a hiss at exertion.

_[Hunger.]_

Undeath has deranged and destroyed his mind, yet it had been the one to leave the taste of pain and life in his mouth. Restoring vitality to his battered body in the backstage of the Finsbury Theater. Offering powers and advocating revenge for all wrongs in one's life. Biding its time to rise, strike, and enslave those who would rather live on their knees than die on their feet. The desire to hurt had obliterated every other thought in his head.

He vanished and reappeared, leer stretching wider. Unbelievable! So, he didn't spurn his gifts or his heritage after all – he could Shadow-step! Even his own ungainliness did not burden him! An odd bit of magic that. The tick of the pulse in the mortals' necks guided him like a wayward buoy.

The first deckhand had no time to react – the vampire collided with him, tackling him to the floorboards beneath them. No hesitation: he tore his captive's throat out and guzzled him dry, giving himself over to the piquant, coppery heat. The blood of struggling, not-influenced prey afforded instant gratification. It spilled and smudged and soaked, but he could scarcely care less. He gnawed at the lower lip as he pulled back.

A cry of the second uppity fleshling roused him — his breaths were similarly wasted. A hand cut downward, ripping several jagged gashes into the torso. How...? Claws like daggers tipped Edgar's fingers and... they scored gamey flesh. Carved gory, pulpy chunks.

The fleshling shrieked and crumpled, hands bunching up the crimson-stained, wet navy service uniform. Fangs snapped shut upon his neck, and silence swept over the scene.

It didn't last. The door to the _Serapis’_ bridge was slammed open, and the captain of bland, forgettable appearance bolted out. A well-oiled semi-automatic handgun jerked in his grasp. It went off, the bullet ricocheting into the ship's funnel, surrounding all with the clamor of metal on metal.

Another surge of thirst washed notions of fear away. The man's path linked closely to his own. The fell powers would serve a discernible purpose: his talons tore the mortal's muscle and splintered bone. Life flowered into patches across the captain's scrawny frame, feeding him. He spattered gore all over him – a melding of passions, presenting a fascinating tableau for inspection.

Exultation and satiety made him sprawl atop the emptied human husks. Flickers of thought rattled through his skull: beginning, childhood, loss, a despairing wish for a better future...

Footsteps crept up with cold malignancy, and Edgar's eyes fluttered open.

“Look at the hellish mess you made, Edgar,” Jonathan spoke with a harsh squint. “You did not have to kill the captain, you know. How are we going to dock now?”

The heaviness in his limbs made even the littlest of movements ponderous. Dr. Swansea reverted to eyeing specks of dirt on the floor. He could sail, yes, but he has had no experience steering a paddle-wheel steamboat of this size. Furthermore, Calais was a port he was unfamiliar with. “Are we going to run aground?” he asked.

“Get up,” came his Maker's authoritative voice. “We'll have to jump when we're about to hit the piers and jetties.”

“Jump?” he repeated, shock overruling the fuzzy afterglow of a mass-Embrace. He looked upward at his associate.

Dr. Reid shrugged. “A commercial steamboat shipwrecking by ramming the Calais docks? This is a plan, considering the circumstances. And I'd rather not be around when this story makes the headlines of the morning French papers.” His curt displeasure waned as he bit his lip – almost as if he fought to hide a smile. “Anyhow, it'll be substantially more manageable now that you've shown you can shadow-step. Quite a convenient ability, that.”

“And what happens then?” He scrambled to his feet and shivered as the wind flicked at the vulnerable, bloodied skin.

Jonathan delved into the pockets and took out his watch. “Hm, almost four in the morning. We've got a couple of hours. Enough time to get to the railway station and queue up at the ticket office. When it opens, of course.” He glanced over his palpitating Progeny. “Let's return to the cabin. We still have those twenty minutes I mentioned – before all of this goes south. Heh, it's fortunate that this time around, I had the forethought to bring some spare clothes.”

* * *

_2nd of January, 1919. Pont Louis-Philippe, Paris._

Out in the night, past festivities bound Paris in snow.

There were no bystanders about. Most likely, this awful weather had sent them scurrying away from the cold. But for beasts like them, it meant they could perch motionlessly on the bridge and savor the stillness. And stillness guaranteed he wouldn't fall sway to the darkest temptations. Edgar scrutinized the poised shape of Notre-Dame, its shimmering outline visible in the storm.

“All right, one more time,” beside him, Dr. Jonathan Reid spoke. “What am I thinking?”

Something stirred within Edgar, and he frowned. “You're pondering whenever I've read the Blood Bible? Well, I know a fair amount of lore, but—”

He hummed under his breath. “Not exactly. Try again.”

_[I'm a rank amateur when it comes to vampiric lore, I admit, but I did manage to create a budding Progeny.]_

“It's because you yourself are of ancient lineage, Jonathan,” Edgar riposted but a flush crept across his cheeks nonetheless. “This had nothing to do with me.”

“Nonsense! I speak— um, _think_ , only the truth. This bond we share is quite something.”

_[The fact you can read my entire thoughts now is proof enough to me. I cannot pass the credit to anyone else.]_

Dr. Swansea stammered. “I— W-Why, thank you. It is nice to know that I am appreciated.”

Jonathan smirked and chambered the last two bullets into his gun – an ordinary revolver he had found in a dilapidated house not long after he was Turned, from his words. The hammer clicked dangerously – he had half-cocked the firearm. Then, he checked upon the rapier, whetted, sheathed and hidden beneath his coat. Dr. Swansea looked askance at his Maker and drew back ever so slightly.

“Please, don't mind me,” Jonathan clarified. A plastered smile curled his lips. “I'm double-checking.” He crossed his arms, the gun's grip digging into his ribs, before he leaned against the stone railing.

“It's been weeks. Do you think he's still after us?” Edgar tilted his head to the side.

“I'm certain McCullum has already found us.”

_[That is most distressing. Why does he hesitate?]_

“Is he waiting for me to let my guard down? It won't happen and he should know that.” The closing words were muttered in frustration under his breath.

The younger vampire swallowed the pounding heartbeat in his throat. Indeed, if Jonathan was egged into a fight, Edgar would be nothing more than dead weight. He was no combatant. He did not get involved in such things, and he told Jonathan as much. And yet his friend had found quarter with him. In spite of everything he's said and he's done, Jonathan did not mind his company. Why? He couldn't answer that. But Edgar wasn't about to test his Maker's patience by barraging him with pointless questions.

A lone figure loomed at the far end of the bridge.

He was clad in a sturdy, quilted tunic and cloak, connected by a brooch. Deep-set, bluish eyes glistened despite the shadow cast over them by a wide-brimmed hat. A calling card of all vampires; it gave away his immortality. A semi-automatic hand crossbow was strapped to one arm. He wielded no melee weapon, as far as Edgar could see.

Geoffrey McCullum, the leader of the Guard of Priwen, raked both doctors with an untrusting stare.

“McCullum. What ill wind brings you here?” Jonathan's hand clenched around his revolver. Steel creaked. “Are you here to finish me off?”

“You'd be correct, Reid. We've got a score to settle,” Geoffrey McCullum called out, his voice harsh but peculiarly devoid of malice. “Or did you think I'd forget what you did to me?”

“No. I assumed you were of somber and unforgiving kind from the start,” his friend said, hand easing toward the weapon.

The Nimrod huffed. “But, believe it or not, I'm here only partly because of you.” He looked at Edgar, gaze icy and flinty. “I'm here to collect you, Swansea. Talltree has sent me so you could stand trial and be punished for your crimes.”

“Me?” Edgar's depthless, dead pulse began to jitter somewhere at the 160 mark.

“I know you're not an idiot, Swansea, so drop the act.” Geoffrey sneered. All of a sudden, his half-brother paused without reason – and his posture relaxed. “Don't you see what Reid's doing to you? He's trying to cast you in his own fucking image! A Dragon!” He gestured to them both.

Edgar took a gander in Jonathan's direction and bumped into a lingering grimace. He returned to McCullum. “I know.”

He gagged. “You— you know?!”

Jonathan gave his younger Progeny a squint-eyed, sideways glance. _[You knew?]_

“And you're letting him?!” McCullum shrieked.

“Shut your mouth, McCullum!” Edgar snarled out – scaring himself. He cringed but went on. “Need I remind you that you're the cause of my misery?! Jonathan undid the damage your thugs – you! – had inflicted! So sorry! Sorry if I choose my friend over your zealotry, cruelty, and close-mindedness, you git! I will not come with you.”

McCullum let silence do the talking for a moment or two. Though his face was obscured by his hat, the baleful scowl peeked through. “I'm an arsehole, Edgar, I know,” he eventually uttered, “but I lie when I say I don't regret giving my men that order. It was stupid and shitty. Abuse and torture shouldn't be used to soften _anyone_.”

He took a step forward and jabbed a finger at the Nimrod. “You should've thought of that earlier, Geoffrey. Your crisis of conscience means little to me.” He held his chin high, teeth bared. “Now leave us alone!”

“I can't do that,” was the immediate response. “I have a task which I must complete. It's to bring you in whether you like it or not and eliminate Reid. No one can afford to have such a parasite run amok; not the Saint-Paul brothers and certainly not the Guard.”

_[Prepare yourself. He would never back down.]_

A hand crept up his shoulder – Dr. Reid came to stand by his side, expression petrified. Wind and snow tore at Edgar's face like razors. “Perhaps I am not destined to a peaceful end, McCullum,” he drawled after a fleeting, disgusted snort. “But I won't let you harm Jonathan further. I will not buckle. I am a vampire and this night... revenge will be mine.” Blood whirled in his palm, hardening, taking the shape of vicious claws. A deadly, quick-acting poison boiled and bubbled in his veins.

Geoffrey pinched the bridge of his nose. “That's morbid, but, in truth, I suspected as much. You thick-headed son of a bitch. At least I had the self-control to defy this fucking hunger we share. Cajole something out of it.” The hunter's hands locked into fists. “Fine. If words will not convey my meaning, then perhaps violence will.”

The Nimrod drew his weapon in a single, expeditious motion. The Parisian darkness ate the sheen of metal up. Neither nick nor smear marred it, and phrase in Latin was etched on the flawless, double-edged blade: _Omnium Rerum Principia Parva Sunt._

**“Everything has a small beginning.”**

A crippling dullness numbed Edgar's mind. “It— It can't be! That's the Dragonbane! The Primate's sacred weapon! Usher Talltree gave it to you?!”

“Talltree's a smart customer,” McCullum said with an ugly crook to his mouth. “Regardless of what I think of your Brotherhood and its members as a whole.”

Edgar gave his Maker's sleeve a frantic tug at their cufflinks, “Jonathan, this is the Dragonbane! It smites evil vampires! Its magic consumes flesh, enlarging and deepening the wounds that we cannot autophage!”

“What do you suggest that we do? Flee?” Jonathan did not falter, yet a hint of fear had colored his voice nevertheless.

“You will not escape me, leech! Now you'll die your final death for what you did to me!” McCullum roared and charged, movement imbued with Shadow.

He came before Jonathan and Edgar in a heartbeat. Neither of them had expected it – nothing gave warning of his approach. His Maker's dismay sent an icy shock up his spine. Above, the night seemed to stretch on to eternity.

Jonathan's revolver went off to a point-blank shot straight to McCullum's stomach. But lead wasn't a fresh herb, plant or wood: the bullet couldn't even stagger him. Not after he became this... admittedly, awe-inspiring beast. Jonathan ducked as the stroke of the blade whizzed over his head, leaving a blaze of starry radiance. His form blurred as he Shadow-stepped away. The rapier was fused to his hand.

Edgar, however, didn't have the luxury to catch his breath or gain his bearings. Alone with the Nimrod, a weakling fool such as himself didn't stand a chance. McCullum snapped a kick into his midsection and dug the Dragonbane into his side between the ribs.

He wasn't evil. At least, Dr. Swansea thought so. He didn't revel in the carnage he wrought. The Dragonbane shouldn't have held sway over him, yet his mind exploded into unintelligible ache, wonder, and malice. Hatred... _Hatred_ split his skull open. He flatlined. Phantasms rushed him, and his head connected with the flagstones below.

Blood glowed on the snow-white ground. His blood. He coughed and clutched at the wound, feeling life – unlife? – passing through his fingers unhindered. Platitudes wouldn't clot blood. A single cut justified his half-formed suspicion: he was useless. So useless in fact, that Geoffrey didn't deign to finish him off once and for all – his half-brother had incapacitated him and moved on to Jonathan. Edgar heard them exchange stabs, swings, bolts, and bullets. A huntsman and a Dragon cornered in a confined, furious stalemate.

His eyes prickled with tears. He struggled. Wished. Pleaded for the blood he'd been drinking to bestow stamina upon a flagging body, and lucidity upon a beleaguered mind. He _wouldn't_ be ready to crumble at a touch. McCullum wouldn't get the satisfaction.

A song pierced the humdrum veil. With a fell, poison gaze, Edgar got up – his legs buckled beneath him, dropping him to his knees. Odd, but the suppurating gash beneath his fingers hurt... less, he understood with a flicker of wry amusement. A craving to fight, kill, and devour until his appetites were sated filled him up. Growling and rasping, he rose.

At that very moment, the Nimrod's crossbow clacked, discharging its bolt. It hurtled through the air and embedded itself above Jonathan's collarbone. The doctor swiped his sword in a frantic, desperate parry. Chanting a battle cry, Geoffrey dashed forward, hooked Jonathan's ankle with his foot and jerked the leg from underneath him. He whipped a punch at the older vampire's head, knocking him to the ground. The Dragonbane's keen edge streaked down, slashing open Dr. Reid's abdomen. His friend's howl of pain and terror – both uttered and through their bond – befell him like shadowy overmind.

McCullum swaggered, longsword extended in his hand,  looming in for the kill.

Edgar's consciousness strayed. Sores erupted along his mutilated side and blood gushed out with a renewed purpose, cutting off his wind and denying him his voice. It eddied and pooled at his feet like the blackest of oils. Instinct and rage swept him... and then a hand ruptured out from the puddle.

Even with his awareness fading, Edgar was convinced he wasn't seeing things. A... a _figure_ of dripping bone and scabby flesh scratched and clawed its way into existence. As large as a Vulkod but slimmer and more dignified. Its appearance? All horns, teeth, claws, nested mouths with lashing tongues. No eyes or ears. Whatever this creature was, it virtually oozed a palpable feeling of raw malevolence.

Helplessness and ravenous hunger smashed Edgar down. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and yet he... he saw McCullum, leveling the Dragonbane at the prone Jonathan, in front of himself as clear as day. Fascinated, the younger vampire cocked his head to the side.

The Nimrod twisted around. A gasp escaped his lips and he shuffled back a step. “What the fuck...?” He peered elsewhere. “Swansea?! Is this thing yours?! You fucking b—”

He didn't let the mongrel finish – a lunge and swat sent McCullum off his feet. Edgar's thirst screamed at him to feed, but he curbed that impulse. Firstly, he would see to his tormentor's overdue punishment and his friend's safety. These were his stomping grounds now. Reveling in this peculiar, newly acquired strength, he strode towards his foe. He could feel Jonathan's eyes following him.

To his credit, Geoffrey recovered quick. He tumbled away from the scrabbling, raking fingers as Edgar pounced on him. A retaliatory attack didn't fall short: as Edgar was scrambling upward, Geoffrey cleaved his kneecap. Scores of icy needles pierced his being and he cried out. Then the second knee followed, toppling him forward. The hunter came to his face, spat, and thrust the Dragonbane into his mouth.

It took every ounce of his willpower to suppress panic. He squealed, thrashed, and fumbled impotently at the blade as his half-brother drove in the fluid, razor edge to its hilt. After a few moments, the realization brought an ease that somewhat dampened his fear if not his thirst. He wasn't dead. He wasn't dead! The lethality of the Primate's weapon would not be underestimated, and yet blood had bought him his life! Hah, not even lobotomized (though he was sure the enchanted steel had perforated his frontal lobe). Leering back at McCullum, Edgar smiled and grabbed hold of his head.

In his grasp, the cur's face turned ashen. Swiveling on his heels, Edgar slammed and pinned the huntsman down to the ground. Geoffrey yelped. Dr. Swansea's long, segmented tongue swirled around the Dragonbane's hilt and yanked it from the palate. Disarmed, even someone like McCullum shouldn't pose a threat, Edgar thought. He raised his claw.

The Nimrod vanished in a haze of smoke to re-emerge a few feet away from his original, exposed position. Fangs bared, he leaped in, latched himself onto the other vampire's back and dug into the meat of Edgar's shoulder.

He all but blacked out: McCullum's bite was frigid venom. A throb of pain hammered in his ears. After a brief moment, it abated, pushed aside by the darkness within. The Shadows chittered to him in a most troubling manner. They crooned...

_[...Here you go, lads. Now, I'm positive Swansea's responsible for this shite that's been happening as of late, so you take him and get him to confess. By whatever means necessary. Nobody's going to miss this long-winded bag of gas anyway.]_

_[Aye-aye, sir. We'll get 'im talking, don't you worry.]_

_[Good. Much as I'd like to stay and enjoy the show, Reid's going to return to the hospital sooner rather than later. And when he does, I'll be waiting for him.]_

_[You heard McCullum! Let's get to it then. A little beating is ought to soften this leech-sympathizer, heh. We might as well enjoy it.]_

A threadbare memory of clubs and fists hitting him stung more than it should've had.

_[Craven Stole shit!]_

_[Ye and yer bleedin' leech buddies want t' unleash a Disaster upon us!]_

Then, Geoffrey's high-pitched, roiling screech reached his ears. The Nimrod shook, shuddered, and convulsed as he fell. He choked, snarled, and writhed like a frenzied, frightened animal. Blood – regurgitated? – frothed in the corners of his mouth, curdling into black, murky sludge.

Scowling at the pain in his shoulder, Edgar appraised his tormentor. He was... so deservedly powerless and doomed. McCullum's bulging, glazed over eyes observed his every movement. He was gasping, panting for air like the dog that he was.

_[William Marshal sent you, didn't he?!]_

_[Interrogate him under torture until he dies of it.]_

Hatred like scorching vomit welled up inside him, its weight threatening to squash everything else inside him. It was time McCullum paid for his crimes. He lost everything he'd worked towards because of him! He grinned from ear to ear, flashing his fangs. An Embrace would be a fitting tribute. Heaving the stupefied, unresponsive man upright, he opened his maw and bit down. Then again and again and again.

Teeth sheared through flesh, bones crunched and snapped. The prey in his grasp trembled and twitched in a soundless scream as his dark, rancid blood poured down Edgar's throat together with scraps of sinew and marrow. He spat out the wad of gory, undead flesh.

Geoffrey's head tumbled off his shoulders. The decapitated body thumped down with the thud of a hammer. An unmistakable sense of evil that had polluted the air dispersed.

_[Edgar! Edgar, can you hear me?!]_

Dr. Swansea fainted. 

* * *

From his obscured vantage on the other side of the canal, McCullum shot a hateful look at the Pembroke Hospital – or, in particular, at the hospital's loft. The appalling place where he fought, lost, and died. The vampire winced, uncorked a bottle, and took a swig. Regardless of its vapidness, Skal blood did ease the dryness in his throat and the ache in his belly.

A part of him could scarcely believe it's been a month already. A month of lying to the Guard and undertaking solo missions to feed. That month ago he vowed to exterminate all immortals in London – this cancer among humanity. Thus, he found himself back at Pembroke, this coven of vampires under that imbecile's protection. Goddammit, he should've seen Swansea's part in this clusterfuck _ages_ ago! And now what?! A leech murdering several patients and a doctor? What was Swansea thinking? Was he thinking at all? His men must've bashed his brains out along with the tawdry detail of his confession... though not that Geoffrey cared.

Speaking of which, Swansea himself was nowhere to be found, it seems. A cordon of police and journalists assembled at the gates, and the uproar could be heard from here.

He'd thought about infiltrating Pembroke – once more, with the add-on of cold-cocking Swansea, were he there – but the men and women who labored there weren't fools. They'd recognize him for certain. Nevertheless, his powers branched the path before him in a thousand directions – a reminder of the debt of blood he owed to his Maker.

Yet, before McCullum could jump down from his overlook, his vampiric awareness sensed a soul approaching. He whirled, unsheathing steel, and halted. A man of Indian countenance stood out of his way, unhurriedly shuffling a deck of cards. A scabbard was fastened to the loop on his belt.

Geoffrey lowered the blade. “Talltree.”

“Good evening, hunter,” Usher greeted. “How do you do? How are you adjusting to immortality? Can you not see that I'm a simple, aging mortal now?”

He ground his teeth together, nearly crushing his canines to dust. “I don't have time for this. Kindly fuck off.”

The Primate shrugged. “I would gladly, but what I do is my own business. I am here to speak an offer. I need the ill-famed Jonathan Reid eliminated.”

“I don't need your chari—” The vampire cut himself off and pursed his lips in thought. Did he hear Usher correctly? “I might be interested... The Saint-Paul's Stole brothers are answering the challenge at long last, eh? And I suppose you're here to question your pal Swansea, the leech-lover that he is? Gotta disappoint you: Edgar's gone. There's press and police looking into this as we sp—”

The other man stopped toying with his cards. He glared at him with undisguised contempt and hostility. “You've some nerve, McCullum. To talk so flippantly of Edgar after you abducted and tortured him.”

“Serves him right. Serves him right!” He waved his hand at the close-by buildings and the shadowed alleyways between. “He created this epidemic and was brought to justice!”

Usher burst out in strident, contemptuous laughter. “Justice?” he went on, “Edgar escaped justice when Jonathan fed him his blood. Just like you.”

A chill hit at his core, and everything clicked into place with volatile suddenness. “Reid Turned him?”

He pressed the fingertips together to make a pyramid. “To save his life, hunter. For he lay laid near death.”

McCullum stole a quick glance over his shoulder and rubbed at the middle of his forehead. “It was Swansea who killed those patients and that one doctor, wasn't it?”

Under the light, Talltree's dark eyes gleamed with an unearthly power. “Yes. He tried to curb the hunger in his own way, but not everyone has your strength of will, McCullum. So Edgar ran, abandoning his brothers and Pembroke. Worse still, he's fled with your – his – Maker to France.” He folded his arms across his chest, his tarot cards in hand. “I know you haven't taken a single human life since your transformation. I know you feed on Skals and any rogue Ekon you can win against.”

He bit the inside of his lip. “What do you want from me, Talltree?” he asked after a pause.

“Right to the point, I see. Very well.” The Primate grinned. “I want to employ you. To become an agent of the Brotherhood. You have the skill, you have the knowledge, and you'll have weapons. Locate and destroy Jonathan Reid. Fetch Edgar if you can – I think he can be salvaged still.”

He couldn't hold back a scoff. “Priwen and your Stole have feuded for generations. What makes you think I'd throw in my lot with you?”

“Because you're more alive than an average Ekon. You didn't surpass your humanity, and that humanity had allowed you to walk amongst mortals. You're a special subspecies of Ekon, hunter. You're a Nimrod.”

At that, he quirked an eyebrow. The word was familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Usher made a _'hmm!'_ noise in his throat. “Nimrods sustain themselves on the blood of other immortals. They're quite the enigma. But more importantly, you have power and can rival your Maker.” Another smile and a nod. “If our situation wasn't as black as it seems, I would've interviewed you for our Order's records.”

“Save it for later, Talltree,” he said, hands balling into fists. “Right now I have a leech to track down. Might as well do it for you as our goals align.”

“Marvelous.” The Primate drew a deep breath through the nose. “Allow me to reiterate: deal with Reid, bring in Edgar. If he's too far gone, kill him too.”

McCullum guffawed. “I'm starting to like this side of the Stole. Maybe you're not as cowardly as you look.”

“I thank you for your compliment, but we're not done yet. To go up against a Dragon, you'll need the right tools.”

He grabbed the gemmed hilt that poked from the scabbard, and an etched, elegant blade slithered out, leaving a dim green trail. Usher flourished his weapon; its form appeared to almost flicker and jump. As much as he despised it, it did captivate McCullum.

“Paulus Aurelianus's Dragonbane. Our shared founder's weapon of choice, capable of carving a righteous swath through all evils. I, as the Primate of Saint-Paul's Stole, entrust it to you so you succeed in your mission.” Usher feinted and held it out, handle first.

The longsword weighed heavily in his hand and was warm to the touch. Power stung and shivered down his limbs – really must be enchanted then. He looked back to the Primate.

The other man bowed ever so slightly. “Godspeed, Nimrod. May you return safely.”

Offering him a wordless farewell, he swiveled on his heels.

“Oh, and McCullum?” Usher's softened voice caught up with him. “Try not lose it. The Dragonbane is our most hallowed relic... beside the Stole itself.” 

* * *

“Edgar.” Arms gently but insistently lifted him into a sitting position.

An exquisite ecstasy had assuaged his thirst. Edgar's head lolled backward, and a groan escaped from deep within his throat. So why did he still feel groggy and tired and hurt? He prayed for nothing more than a crumb of comfort... But fragrant human gore painted him from mouth to navel. Heat rose behind his eyelids.

He'd no longer entertain the thought of redemption. Such folly wouldn't yield him any second chances; everyone is judged according to what they say and do. Punishment had to be... administered.

“Edgar! T-Talk to me.”

Over the course of several moments, the world sharpened into focus and Jonathan's disquieted, freckled with blood face floated into view. He expelled a sigh of relief, then hissed and clutched at the the gash where the Dragonbane had found purchase. Pus and foam oozed around the wound – and it'd been a shallow cut too!

“At last!” he breathed with relief, “I was... I was afraid that you were— How d-do you feel?”

Edgar started to shake, and a sob tore from his chest. He buried his face in his hands.

“Shhh.” His Maker's hand squeezed his shoulder, attempting to staunch the flow of his tears. “It's all right. It's all right... T-Truly, if you wept for all those you killed, you'd be awash in blood.”

He wheezed in hysteria. The huntsman's white-hot thoughts, coarse memories, and incomprehensible emotion seared across his brain. Rage had become dominant over all. The presence that was no longer cloaked from him made him want to either throw up or roar with amusement. And this presence... this taint had marshaled its power. It had won.

Jonathan fidgeted, forcing Dr. Swansea to turn his attention towards him. “Edgar,” he said, “what was that thing? The one that Embraced McCullum?”

The Nimrod's cadaver and decapitated head drowned face-first in thawing, reddened snow. The bloodstained Dragonbane lay some feet away. With an effort, Edgar averted his gaze.

“It was yours, wasn't it?” his friend continued, expressionless.

 “I— I d-don't know, J-Jonathan,” he whispered, crusted lips hardly moving. Faint anger and indignation flooded through him still. “Where—where has it g-gone?”

“That creature burst into steaming ichor after you passed out,” he informed quite matter-of-factly. His brows pulled in. “Edgar, that creature. It mimicked the avatar of the Red Queen. The one I fought.”

The presence gently pushed at his mind and he swallowed. “Th-The M-Morrigan?”

“Yes. Tall, fair, horned, made of blood? Do you know what this means?”

The younger vampire didn't answer. A ghostly hand brushed his cheek, a gesture that startled him.

Dr. Reid cleared his throat. “If you didn't choose that form on purpose then it means that you... that you might be infected. Infected with the Blood of Hate. It would explain McCullum's fumbled attack – he drank the most lethal of poisons.” He brought a finger to Edgar's lips, hushing him. “No, don't say anything. The Blood of Hate enslaves exclusively bitter, vengeful women. That's a fact. So, all in all, you _should_ be safe.”

The Morrigan's presence abated with a chuckle. Without it scattering his humanity, some vague approximation of anguish and self-loathing re-surged with a vengeance. Edgar broke down, tears spilling down his face, his wracking sobs only interrupted by his half-need to breathe.

The same arms from before weaved about him and drew him into a hug. Edgar didn't question it. He reeled off balance, bumping his face against Jonathan's shoulder. Their closeness left a musky, pungent scent of cigarettes, gunpowder, porcelain, and blood.

“Shhh... Let's go home.” Jonathan knuckled his Progeny's eyes. “We'll figure something out, I'm sure.”


End file.
